


Not Quite Normal

by Wikiaddicted723



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wikiaddicted723/pseuds/Wikiaddicted723
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is a sequel of sorts to my fic “Full Disclosure”, which I recommend you read before this one if you haven’t already, as it begins the morning after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Normal

They manage to get to her bed at some point during the night, this she knows for a fact as she finds herself covered in her sheets from the waist down, her mattress beneath them as she rests her head on the space between his shoulder and chest (the how though, still manages to elude her, the only images in her brain a flurry of limbs and restless hands tumbling onto the mattress gracelessly), feeling his deep breathing as it threatens to lull her to sleep once more, one of her legs carelessly draped across his as she toys with the dusting of light hair across his chest in a lazy caress that sends barely – there shivers through him, shivers she wouldn’t be able to feel if she weren’t pressed flush against him, but his breathing pattern remains unchanged, his rest unchallenged; she smiles softly at the knowledge that she can affect him even in his sleep, finding it oddly reassuring and endearing, acknowledging the fact that he has the same effect on her. It gives her a feeling of eerie synchronicity that has come to permeate the whole of their relationship, a feeling she suspects might have been there since the very first time she met him, years ago in Iraq, when all she had been able to feel for him was a mild, though undeniable attraction she had not been able to suppress albeit her predicament at the time. She has always felt a connectedness with him that manages to exceed the limits of her intelligence, but she finds that it no longer bothers her that she can’t seem to get her head around it.

 

She has decided that if the world is going to end (a fate she still hopes to prevent and will keep fighting with every ounce of her strength) she might as well enjoy the few days they might have left, because being here with him, his scent and his presence seeping into her every pore, she feels the happiest she has been for far longer than she can remember. The only regret she has left is not having taken that fateful step with him sooner, not just physically speaking – though she finds it thoroughly exhilarating – but emotionally; it is a regret she tries to keep on the back of her mind, sequestered in a tight, dark corner she has subconsciously created for all her mistakes, her failures, to be revised and analyzed in cold calculation at a later date.

 

She thinks this might be the one good thing her alternate’s memories have left her, the knowledge that sometimes living in the moment is worth a thousand regrets, a thousand mistakes. And she wants to live these moments with him more than she has ever wanted anything, the fact that he seems to feel the same way swells her heart to bursting; so she caresses his chest with her fingertips, her every sense concentrating on the feel of him all around her, committing it to the permanence of her photographic memory, relishing on the slow burn that his fingers have unconsciously started against her lower back in their characteristic dream – state twitching, watching the nascent sunlight dance across his calm features as his breath falls on the top of her head, his cheek lightly pressed against her hair as his head rests on her pillow. She doubts she’ll be washing it anytime soon.

 

As she entertains these thoughts she realizes that this is the first time since she got back, since she allowed herself to get _him_ back, that he’s spent the night at her place, in her bed, as they had thought it - by silent, mutual agreement - less awkward if they met somewhere that wasn’t plagued by memories of darker times, namely the house he kept with his father, where the other her had never been. She can’t suppress an ironic smile at this, thinking of how it had taken a fight as the one they’d had last night to get them here. Nothing seemed to ever go smoothly with them, but she found that she would do it all over again if it meant that she still got to keep him.

 

She raised her head from his chest then, looking at the bedside clock, having decided that sleep would not come to her again as she felt a dormant energy within her awakening with the day. She had always been a morning person, and that was not going to change any time soon, no matter how much she wanted to keep snuggling with the _very naked_ man beside her because she knew that if she didn’t get out of bed soon she’d end up waking him, and he didn’t seem to have gotten much sleep the last few days if she judged by the dark circles under his eyes, what with his worry at her unwilling possession by one William Bell. She slowly, but surely, disentangles herself form his embrace, taking every precaution not to wake him as she makes for the edge of the bed, watching as his body unconsciously rolls over towards her, seeking the warmth that has left him; he sighs in his sleep and she bends over him to press a soft kiss against his temple watching his furrowed brow relax once again as she gathers her pajamas from beneath her pillow, pulling the loose pants and the MIT t - shirt she’d kept on impulse, but had not come around to wearing until after the events of the Rosencrantz building, on her body before walking unhurriedly to her kitchen, not bothering to pick up the clothing that lies strewn across the floor in a path leading nowhere.

 

 

 

She’s preoccupied on drinking the first batch of her newly brewed coffee, her eyes closed in relaxation as she leans her side against her counter, when she feels his strong arm hug her waist from behind and press her gently against the solid form of his chest. She lets herself lean back into him slightly, comforted on the fact that she can actually let herself be vulnerable around him, before resting her head back on his shoulder, looking up into his sleepy gaze.

 

“Morning,” she says, her voice raspy from unuse but warm nonetheless. He brushes her hair from her face with his other hand and leans down to press a soft kiss to her lips.

 

“…Morning,” he responds with the small, content smile he seems to reserve for her, “ you kinda scared me for a minute, when I didn’t find you with me.”

 

She smiles at this, running her fingers through his rough cheek, a slight shudder making it’s way along her back as she remembers the feel of that same rough cheek on certain parts of her antomy. It doesn’t go unnoticed by him, as he presses her backside more fully against him, his hands treading their way to grab her waist under the t – shirt, his fingers caressing her teasingly. He knows exactly what he’s doing to her, and she allows a small groan to escape her lips as she rises fully from her leaning position, the fingers of her free hand threading themselves with his, daring him to even think about releasing her.

 

“I’m here,” she says to him, in response to his earlier statement, content to be standing in his arms again. She wonders briefly if it’ll ever stop feeling like this and hopes fervently that the answer is no, because she can’t imagine not feeling like she now does when he holds her like she’s his buoy in a turbulent sea, much like she herself thinks of _him_. She tries not to let it show too much, she doesn’t want his ego to go higher that it usually is, fearing that it’ll float into the atmosphere and disappear from human parameters.

 

“I’m glad,” he answers, his voice throaty as he hides his face into the junction between her neck and shoulder, still reveling in the fact that he can hold her like this with her permission, that after all he did to her, after all the times he hurt her, she can still find it in her to desire him like this and let him into her heart. He doesn’t ask what he did to deserve her because he knows inherently that he doesn’t, and never will, deserve a woman like Olivia Dunham, but he’s grateful and more than a little bit selfish so he opts for not questioning it, afraid that if he even thinks it she’ll vanish into thin air and leave him.

 

She feels his hands tighten on her possessively, almost desperately, as he releases a sigh slowly through his lips, inhaling her scent like a man who sees water after a life in the desert, and she manages to deduce the mood of the thoughts running through his head, echoing her own insecurities. She has come to the realization, in the last few weeks, that she wasn’t the only one scared of being vulnerable; he was just as scared of being hurt and cheated as she was, both of them used to keeping other people, including their loved ones (especially their loved ones), at arms length, so she turns around in his arms slowly, running her hand through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp as she hugs him to her, her ear resting just above his heart.

 

“I’m here,” she repeats, her voice stronger, steadier, needing to reassure him as well as herself, realizing that it was going to take time to be certain of that fact again after their run in with Bell and his  ‘Soul Magnets’. She feels him hug her back and press a kiss against her hair, the gesture so utterly _his_ that she feels another smile being pulled out of her lips. She can’t seem to stop smiling when he’s around her, not that she minds much, but it still feels strange to be so happy after all the anger and the betrayal and the despair that ripped through her mere months ago.

 

“Good,” he says seriously, “Because you can’t imagine how _much_ I’ve missed you.”

 

She closes her eyes at this and breaths him in deeply because he’s yet again left her with this feeling of unsteadiness on her feet, and she can’t bring herself to say anything back to lighten the mood, she simply doesn’t want to. Her only answer is a low hum as she nuzzles his chest with her face lightly.

 

After what must be mere minutes but feels like hours to them she lets go of him and puts some distance between them after giving him a light peck on the lips and going back to her coffee pot.

 

“Do you want some?” she offers, holding her half empty and cooling mug before him so he understands her meaning, but she notices the way his eyes seem to be stuck on her chest, his jaw slack, and she understands that he has finally seen what she’s wearing. She can see the cogs and wheels in his brain turning at top speed, trying to make his brain process what his optical nerves are seeing, and can barely hold the sly grin that threatens to split her face from ear to ear from forming on her face.

 

“You kept it?” he asks dumbly, gulping, his voice barely above a whisper in his awe. He brings his hands to the hem of the shirt, fingering it as he finally manages to move his gaze towards the pools of green that are her eyes, seeing the amusement in them, but also the heartache that the memories always seem to plague her with.

 

“Yeah…I…I guess I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out, it was the only thing I had left of you at the time.” She says turning her head to look away from him, finding it ridiculous that she can go from feeling almost giddy to melancholic in a matter of seconds with just the thought of the months she missed, because she’s supposed to be over it now. But she knows he understands, and knows not to push her, it would take time for the both of them to be truly healed of the wounds inflicted upon them by her alternate and his biological father, but they were on the right path, and making rapid progress.

 

“Well, you look unbelievably hot,” he tells her, a cheeky grin adorning his face as she whips her head to look at him, a laugh bubbling out of her unchecked, his nonchalant dismissal of her blue mood in favor of bawdiness reminding her of the many reasons she loves him. She raises an eyebrow at him, smirking.

 

“Oh, really, Mr. Bishop?” she says coyly, leaning back against the counter, bracing herself on her bent arms. Half of her, the insecure half of her, is reticent to believe his statement, but that half of her has been rendered unavailable at the moment.

 

“Really, Agent Dunham,” he says, his voice an octave lower, sending chills through her because she knows that look he’s sporting, what it means and what comes next, and the giddiness comes back with the anticipation as she sees him walk impossibly closer to her, pressing his boxer clad body to her until the counter’s edge is biting uncomfortably on her back, his mouth inches from hers, his breath on her face as she closes her eyes, savoring the closeness, feeling the physical evidence of his excitement press against her lower stomach.

 

“But I still think _these_ need to go,” he says in a whisper, his lips brushing against her own with every word as he runs his fingers on the hem of her black sweatpants, making her breath catch in her throat.

 

“Then take them off,” she says, just as nonchalant, determined to match him in this game they’re playing as she runs her hands through his chest and abdomen, putting a slight pressure to the paths her fingertips make, knowing (and feeling) exactly what she’s doing to him.

 

She tries and fails miserably not to let her mind wander into the fact that he _may_ have done something similar as what is about to happen with her alternate in this very spot, the thought reminding her of the reason she hadn’t brought herself to invite him over, though she’d wanted to, but he seems to feel her stiffen against him because he stares at her in doubt, analyzing her mood as only he can, unsure if he should continue, and something must have shown on her face because the next second he’s holding her face in his hands and kissing her with as much love and passion as he can pour into a kiss, the only way he knows that he can reassure her without words because frankly, words have failed him in the most disastrous of ways before; she seems to have that effect on him. She kisses him back, knowing he means it as both reassurance that it’s always been _her_ and an unspoken apology, one he no longer needs to make as she has already forgiven but does nonetheless, possibly for his own peace of mind. She feels an insurmountable affection bubbling up from deep within her chest as he pulls away from her and stares into her eyes, guilt and regret etched into his features. She promises herself that she won’t let the hurt rob him away from her ever again.

 

“Didn’t you hear me, Bishop?” she asks, her voice low in a mock seriousness that’s only betrayed by the almost shy smile growing on her face, not wanting to lose this moment between them, telling him with a glance that, though it still hurt, it no longer mattered, “ I said to take them off.”

 

He looks at her with softened eyes, his unique spark making itself a home behind his eyes in gratitude as whatever guilt he might have shown is swiftly replaced by warmth and mirth and mischief at her willingness to let it go.

 

He feigns to be considering the request for a second before he proceeds to do her biding in the most inelegant way he can muster, all but ripping the sweats away before lifting her onto the counter as she wraps her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles at his back in an unbreakable hold as she very firmly, very slowly, grinds her hips on his, making him groan into her neck, the sound reverberating on her chest as she brings her hands to his short strands of hair for the umpteenth time, holding his face against her.

 

And then someone knocks on her door.

 

A frustrated groan makes it’s way out his lips as she feels him freeze in her arms, his posture alert, expectant, echoing her demeanor as their eyes meet, and she’s almost tempted to ignore the person on the other side of her door, but she’s sure that the buzzer did not sound, meaning that it can only be a limited group of people knocking on her door this early in the morning, one of which is standing with her in the kitchen, thus ruling himself out.

 

“Liv? Are you in there?” says the very recognizable voice of her sister coming from the entrance hall. She had totally forgotten, in part due to the man she’s wrapped around, that her sister was flying in this morning to stay with her for a while.

 

Peter watches as realization downs on her because Rachel keeps a key, and she most definitely doesn’t want her sister to find out about them in this particular way, what with him locked between her legs on the kitchen counter. He’s half expecting her to shove him away roughly and make a dash towards her room when all she does is bring her hands toward his chest and push lightly, slowly, against him, making room for her to stand and grab her sweatpants. The look she gives him is one of urgency, as well as resignation and the tiniest bit of excitement as she mouths the word “clothes” at him and points towards her living room’s floor. He nods his head in understanding and dashes to sweep their previously discarded clothing from the ground before he makes his way into her bedroom to make his appearance slightly less conspicuous. He _so_ doesn’t want to be the one to explain to sweet eight – year – old Ella what her ‘Uncle Peter’ was doing in his underwear on her aunt’s kitchen.

 

She walks steadily towards her door as her sister calls her name again, opens the door as Rachel is about to bring her keys out of her pocket, and is met by the half – tackle of her niece as she throws herself into her aunt’s arms in excitement, all her red – eye – flight – induced sleepiness forgotten as she laughs in excitement.

 

“Aunt Liv!” Ella says, almost bouncing in place as Olivia manages to untangle herself from her niece and crouch on the ground to give her a hug. She couldn’t begin to explain the relief and the happiness that light up inside her at holding the little girl in her arms after so long.

 

“Hey, baby girl, you’re so big!” she says, smiling at Ella before she looks at an expectant Rachel, “ how was you flight?”

 

“Long…boring, but we finally got here,” her sister says, eyeing her clothing as she lets herself in, looking around in suspicion.

 

“Liv…” her sister starts, hearing the rustling coming from her bedroom, and Olivia knows that she’s never going to live this down unless she confesses. Not that she’s planned on not telling her about Peter, but she’d wanted to do it later, on the phone, when her sister couldn’t see her face and jump into cupid – mode. She could already see the wedding plans make their way into the back of Rachel’s mind, and had to suppress a groan at the thought.

 

“…You didn’t go to MIT.” Her sister deadpans, arms crossed and awaiting an explanation, a knowing smile on her face.

 

“ _I_ did,” interjects the now dressed form of Peter Bishop as he comes out of her room, his button up shirt in his hands, his undershirt and jeans covering his body. She sees her sister’s eyebrows disappear towards her hairline, her mouth open in surprise as she whips her head to look at her and then back at Peter before her look is replaced by one of satisfaction and an I – told – you – so attitude.

 

She can’t suppress the blush that makes it’s way up her chest and colors her cheeks, chuckling in amusement as Ella promptly interrupts the moment by throwing herself into Peter’s waiting arms with a shout of ‘Uncle Peter’, thanking whomever for the child’s short attention spans.

 

She watches as Peter grabs Ella mid – tackle and throws her up into the air before catching her, cradling the little girl to his chest as he musses her hair with a hand, all the while grinning mischievously. She briefly thinks that he’d make a great father some day, before promptly kicking herself mentally for entertaining such thoughts when the universe is crumbling around them; she eyes her sister, meeting her interrogative stare and mouthing a ‘later’, dooming herself to the horrors of sisterly prodding on her sex life.

 

“Hey midget,” he says to Ella, setting her on the ground once more as he comes towards her and wraps an arm around her waist, smiling smugly at a dumbfounded Rachel, “I think I should head home, check on Walter, make sure he hasn’t done any world – shattering experiments in the kitchen,” he says, winking at her, expecting her response.

 

“Sure,” she says, grateful for his tactful retreat, not that she wanted him gone, but now she had to talk to her sister about things she wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear, “here, I’ll walk you out,”

 

She walks with him and opens the door, watching him put his coat on before letting him out and following him, leaving the door ajar. She stops at the top of the steps as he turns around to grab her waist, making her taller than him for a moment as she runs her fingers through his stubbly jaw line.

 

“I was thinking…” he says, looking up at her, his hair still disheveled from sleep, “maybe I could come back later this evening, bring a movie and pizza or something, if that’s ok with you…I know you haven’t seen them in a while, and I wouldn’t want to keep you away.” She smiles at his concern, grateful for his understanding. That she hasn’t seen them in a while is an understatement, but her sister and niece will never know that.

 

“I’d like that,” she answers, kissing him deeply, knowing in the back of her mind that her sister is standing at the door, watching. She feels him smirk into the kiss and knows that he has realized that too, he steps up to her and brings her closer, cupping her cheek, running his hand through her hair and down her back before he presses his mouth to her ear and whispers:

 

“I hope she lets you live it down.” He teases her evilly, she chuckles.

 

“Yeah, more or less like Walter did?” she asks, shaking her head in resignation before disentangling herself from him and walking back to her apartment, but not before looking over her shoulder.

 

“I’ll see you later,” she calls to him, ignoring her sister’s pointed stare as she re – enters her apartment building.

 

**************

 

“So,” Rachel starts, sitting across from her in the kitchen once Ella has gone off to watch TV in the living room, “just how long has this been going on, and why on earth was I not informed?”

 

She rolls her eyes at her sister, sipping the second coffee cup of what she feels will be a very long day, which only makes her grateful for the handful of laws that forbid her from telling Rachel just how long IT has been going on, with the whys and hows it entails. Not that her sister was referring to anything other than her relationship with the younger Bishop, but then again most of _that_ has a bunch of red tape around it, too.

 

“It has been going on for a couple of months, and you weren’t informed because you weren’t supposed to find out like this, we’re still pretty new. I was going to tell you, I promise.” She edits swiftly.

 

“Yeah, sure you were, when you needed me to be the maid of honor at the wedding, I’m sure,” He sister says, and she can no longer suppress the sigh that escapes her lips as she cradles her face in her hands, half – way amused at what Peter would say if he’d heard Rachel.

 

“Ok, then,” Rachel says, recognizing that she was not going to be very forthcoming about any of this but determined to get some answers out of her, “ how did he manage to grow a pair and finally ask you out?”

 

She has to laugh at this, the absurdity of the situation making her shake her head in amusement. She’d been the one to grow a pair in admitting to herself how she felt about him, had managed to cross universes to _ask him out,_ to put it in her sister’s words, after he found out that both Walter and her had lied to him and left for his birth world. But Rachel didn’t need to know all that.

 

“Well he didn’t really need to, we’d been going out for drinks after cases sometimes,” she said, sticking to as many true facts as she could, “but it was mostly just friendly, you know?”

 

“Uhuh,” Rachel said, disbelieving.

 

“And well, remember when he went missing and we couldn’t find him?” She was going to burn in hell for being such a liar, if there was a hell. Her sister only nodded, having heard about it from her and Ella.

 

“Well we found him a few days after and got him back from the people who had taken him…they were going to do things to him that you can’t even begin to imagine.” like put him in an ancient machine that would kill him and make him destroy their universe, she thought to herself. ‘ _Understatement’_ didn’t even begin to cover it.

 

“ And I… I guess I kind of realized that I liked him a lot more than I thought and things just sort of evolved from there.” She bit the inside of her cheek, hoping her sister wouldn’t ask anything else; she’d conveniently left out the part where she got captured in another universe and was replaced by a doppelganger that managed to live her life and sleep with Peter, thereby ruining what little life she might have had left by that point.

 

“And?” Rachel prodded.

 

“And, what?” she said, dreading the look in her sister’s eyes, feeling the next question in her bones.

 

“Is he any good in bed?” Rachel asked shamelessly, earning herself a swat on the arm by a beat red Olivia.

 

“You did _not_ just ask that.”

 

“Yes, I did. That’s just unfair Olivia, I’ve always told you!”

 

“I don’t remember asking, Rach…actually, I remember very clearly asking you _not_ to tell me.” She says, dead serious.

 

“Oh Liv, come on!” Rachel whined in a very non-adult way, making her laugh in spite of herself, remembering less complicated times.

 

“Well, it’s none of your business, but he _is_ good.” She wonders if there is such a thing as a permanent blush, thinks she might question Walter about it later. Then again, maybe not.

 

“Really good?” Rachel asks, looking a lot like Ella right then, and she has always had difficulty denying anything to Ella, though she tries not to imagine her niece asking _that_ particular question.

 

“Really good.” Perfect if she has any say about it, because they have found, together, that their eerie synchronization extends itself way beyond the seemingly Vulcan mind – meld they have discovered over time since they met, as if it had always been there waiting to be awakened.

 

She smiles, looking away as she feels her body grow a few degrees warmer just with the thought of how good he actually is. Sometimes she simply hates being so in tune with him, letting him affect her even when he was just a thought, an electrical impulse travelling through her neural pathways, hijacking her higher brain functions, or conning them into submission for that matter.

 

 Or when he was just a figment of her very distressed, very drugged imagination a universe over; not that she hadn’t been thankful, she still was.

 

 **************

 

It’s just past seven o’ clock when Peter knocks on her door again, his hands full with the biggest pizza box she has ever seen and a couple of supermarket bags that seem to be loaded with beer, juice boxes for Ella, and a couple of DVDs. She swiftly relieves him of the bags and makes way for him to come in and set the pizza on the table in front of the TV, where Ella and Rachel have already assumed their positions for the evening, the jet – lag apparent in their demeanor. She gives him a quick kiss before bringing the bags to her kitchen, unpacking the beers and a juice box for Ella, (who has risen from the dead and thrown herself at Peter effusively once his hands were free) and finds him leaning on the kitchen door as she exits, his gaze fixed on her. She hands him a beer, leaning oh – so – slightly into his touch as he brushes her cheek with the back of his hand before rising and leading her towards the couch, where she promptly pushes him down and inspects the movies he’s provided, raising an eyebrow at him when she sees what he’s brought.

 

“The Wizard of Oz…really?” she says, she has seen it countless times and is amused at his choice and the subjective similarity with the weirdness of recent happenings, because knowing him she is sure that it was anything but coincidental.

 

“Yeah, well, it _is_ a classic…and innocent enough that I thought Ella might enjoy it.” He says, staring deep into her eyes, knowing the kind of thoughts that run through her mind, confirming them with a glance; she realizes it’s his way of relieving the pressure of lying to her family from her shoulders, however subtle and incomprehensible it might be to her sister and niece, but it doesn’t matter, and they both know it, because _she_ understands…and that is all that matters.

 

“ _I_ have always wanted to see it, never seemed to have the time,” Rachel interjects, sensing the slight change in the atmosphere by the complicit look the couple in the room was sporting, she wasn’t FBI, but one only needed to have a working pair of eyes to know that their interactions always had an undercurrent, as if every little thing had a deeper meaning hidden to _normal_ people.

 

“Good,” Peter says, a smile in his voice, “ and, for the little sweetheart here,” he bounces Ella on his lap, as she has found her way into ‘Uncle Peter’s’ arms yet again, “Tangled!” he announces with a flourish of his hand, producing the movie case out of what seems to be thin air in one of his trademarked “magic” tricks.

 

He smiles in smug satisfaction as all three Dunhams erupt in surprised laughter around him, glad that he can provide them, provide her, with moments like this, loving the sound of her laughter as it cascades over him.

 

They watch both movies in silence, the only sound after a while becoming Ella’s soft, childlike snores as she drifts to sleep in her aunt’s arms by the second half of ‘The Wizard of Oz’. As the movie comes to a close, Dorothy awakening from her dream, they help Rachel extricate the girl from Olivia and watch as she takes her to the guest room, putting her to bed. Peter sits up, his knee brushing hers affectionately as he searches her face.

 

“You sleepy?” he asks her, curious.

 

“No, not at all,” she replies watching as he nods in understanding and proceeds to rummage in the pockets of the coat he’d previously strewn on the back of the couch, producing, to her surprise and amusement, a worn deck of cards.

 

“I thought you might say that,” he says, feeling himself grin like an idiot. He seems to be doing that a lot lately, wonders if Walter is somehow getting him high without him noticing, “So how about you show me more of those card counting tricks you’re so fond of?”

 

Part of her can’t believe that he even remembers that night in a bar in Cambridge, but a look at his face tells her it’s something new to him, doing this here, with her, and of course he remembers, how could he not, after over analyzing every second he has ever spent with her, trying to give himself an explanation as to why he couldn’t see the now blatant differences between _them._ Beating himself up over it every day; he doubts he will ever stop doing so because even if she has forgiven him, he hasn’t been able to find a reason to forgive himself.

 

“Sure,” she says then, “but I seem to remember we left a poker game unfinished around that time.”

 

“Ah, yes, Walter’s secret stash got saved by the bell if I remember correctly,” he says, all business, a devilish glint in his eyes, “I’m game if you are.” He states, a chuckle coming from her at his double entendre.

 

The night advances slowly, Rachel having joined them in their poker game soon after, until they decide that Olivia is cheating, counting cards technically, and force her into teaching them how to do it, not that Peter doesn’t already know, but his memory has never been as good as hers, and Rachel doesn’t need to know why he knows how to do it, so they keep it to themselves.

 

A six pack of beer and countless card tricks later, Rachel has been reduced into giggling fits, hearing the very heavily edited stories of Walter doing ridiculous things around the lab, and of those early days in the hotel room when Peter had all but memorized Phi to its fifty – seventh decimal digit.

 

“ Just so you know how crazy your sister really is, working with mad men like us Bishops,” Peter states.

 

“Pot, meet Kettle.” She says, laying her head on his shoulder and kissing him, startling Rachel with her openness, knowing her sister as the most private person she has ever met.

 

“Okay, weird,” Rachel says, separating them, noticing the slight blush on Olivia’s cheeks, though Peter, if uncomfortable at all, seems unfazed, “Just who are you and what did you do with my sister?” Rachel jokes, not expecting Peter to choke on his beer and hold his head in his hands as coughs rack through his body, Olivia looking at the floor, biting her lip from the inside, not amused.

 

Peter stands, suddenly, once the coughing has subsided and grabs the pizza box, taking it to the kitchen as an excuse to escape from the tense atmosphere of the living room. He all but throws the box onto the kitchen counter, a frustrated, self –loathing induced sigh fleeing his lips as he rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his eyes closed. He can feel Olivia watching him, feels her stare burning into his back and wonders if it was indeed too soon for him to be here with her. Things seemed to be going so smoothly. But things never do go smoothly with them, he thinks, unaware that he’s echoing her mind, the same fleeting thought having made its way through her earlier in the day.

 

She watches as his shoulders slump forward in something akin to defeat as she stands at the threshold, a hand running through her hair, wondering if there will ever come a day when they’re free of _her_ , and all the damage she’s caused. She no longer doubts the veracity of his feelings for her, but she cannot deny that it hurts. It hurts more to have to watch him beat himself up for it though, however subtly and out of sight he thinks he does it, the fact unregistered to the untrained eye, so she brings herself to move behind him, resting her head on his back, hugging him to her in as much reassurance as she feels enabled to give him.

 

After a while he brings his fingers to hers, turning around to lean back against the window, keeping her hands to his chest.

 

“You okay?” he asks her, making her smile at the fact that his greatest worry was not knowing how she’d taken it.

 

“Me? Yeah, I’m okay,” she says softly, they’re still working at this trust thing, trying to be as open to each other as they can manage, difficult as it may be.

 

“I want you here,” she says, somehow answering his doubts about his presence, and he thinks he might have to add mind reading to her endless list of talents, right under universe hopping and exceptional drug tolerance.

 

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he responds.

 

“I meant to tell you,” she says, biting her lower lip, “ sorry I left you hanging this morning with Rachel and all.”

 

He laughs at this.

 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure to get back at you later,” and he’s teasing her again, the awkwardness forgotten as he skims his hands over her back and she leans into him.

 

“This is more to me than just sex, ‘Livia…you know that, right?” he asks after a while, somehow concerned that his intentions aren’t clear. He feels as laughter rolls off her body, shaking him with her before she separates he head from his chest and looks up at him.

 

“I know.” She says seriously, her fingers on his neck trying to convey the fact that his statement goes both ways, “there’s no place like home.”

 

He gives a soft chuckle at this, “Yeah, but you’re no Dorothy, and I can assure you this is not a dream,” he says.

 

“Good,” is her only answer as she smiles into his chest.

 

 

They remain oblivious to the fact than Rachel looks upon them from the kitchen door, smiling softly at them, not having realized before this moment the actual depth, the seriousness of their relationship. This was definitely way beyond a fling.

Rachel just smiles and shakes her head, happy that they finally came to their senses and realized just how perfect they were for each other, because in her opinion, there have never been two people as blind about feelings, and each other, as Peter Bishop and Olivia Dunham.

 

 

 

 


End file.
